Great Historical Novels (77 page)

‘How did it go last night?’ She looked over one shoulder as she spoke. Her enquiry was sharp-edged, as if she hoped that finally the firebombs had arrived, a bright white shower falling on the Leningrad domes and merging into a running field of fire. For as soon as the Germans began bombing, even pig-headed patriots like her husband would be forced to leave.

He thought back to the night he’d just spent under the velvet August sky. The moon, so low and large he could set it swinging like a pendulum. The familiar streets were transformed into an unfamiliar tableau, fountains and buildings like paper cutouts rimmed with light. Far away on the horizon came the occasional flash of a different light: German gunfire and the Soviet reply. But this, too, had seemed unreal, no more than an operatic effect. On the Conservatoire roof the hours had fallen away, and by the time sunrise stained the eastern sky Shostakovich had lived through several lifetimes.

He stared at Nina, dazed. ‘It was quiet. Yes, extremely quiet. Perhaps our troops will hold Mga after all, and the Germans will be forced to retreat.’ A melodic line hung in his head, somehow connected to the bright moon and the silence, but now it was in danger of disappearing altogether.

‘Do you actually listen to the radio reports?’ Nina placed the pot on the stove with a clang. ‘Or do you mentally rewrite them for your own convenience?’

Galina leaned against Shostakovich’s legs like a cat. ‘What’s that you’re holding?’

Stroking her smooth head, Shostakovich felt the first waves of tiredness breaking over him. Perhaps he should lie down for an hour and gather some energy for the task ahead? ‘It’s something my Da made. He made it when I was a boy and he was working as an engineer.’

‘What’s it for?’ Maxim stared at the spidery gadget, forgetting his hunger.

‘It draws five lines at once. You can make musical paper with it. I need some because the Composers’ Union has run out and I have to finish my march.’ This last sentence was largely for Nina’s benefit: an explanation without any tedious detail.

‘Your march? That boom-boom one we’ve heard on the piano?’

‘It won’t end with a boom, Galya’ He cast a longing glance at the workroom door. ‘It will end with a sigh, and perhaps a few tears. It will end quietly — as long as I can get some quiet time to end it.’

‘Are you really low on paper?’ So Nina had heard his plea! Now perhaps he’d be allowed to leave the kitchen, fighting off the need for sleep, beckoning to the faint sounds he’d heard some hours earlier.

‘Yes, God knows what they’ve been using score paper for. That numbskull Prokofiev probably took a stash to the Caucasus for scribbling his crap on. And Khachaturian took the rest to the Urals. It might as well be used as toilet paper.’ He spoke lightly; winning Nina over, even temporarily, always made him feel better.

She was laying out mugs and spoons on the table. ‘Are you eating with us?’

‘I’m not hungry. I got something at the Union canteen.’

‘Is that so?’ Nina regarded him steadily. ‘What did you get — white lies with onions? You’re getting so thin, you need to eat.’

‘Stop fussing!’ He lost his patience. ‘I’ve got a job to do. And it’s a damn sight more important than perching on a rooftop, watching for non-existent bombers.’

He slammed his way into his workroom and barricaded the door with a chair.
Don’t try to come in
, he prayed, opening the lid of the piano. There was no time for recriminations and apologies.

Much later, he raised his head. He could hear a hammering — not the thudding ground-bass of his strings, as he’d first thought. It was definitely external.

With a sigh, he went out into the main room. It was empty and tidy. The dishes were stacked away. The children’s overshoes had gone from beside the door. The onslaught of knocking continued.

‘Who is it?’

‘Dmitri!’ The voice was familiar. ‘It’s me! Let me in.’

Alarmed, he flung open the door. ‘Nikolai! What in God’s name has happened? Are the Germans inside the city gates?’

Nikolai stumbled past him and sank down in a chair, his chest heaving. He looked as if he’d run all the way from his apartment, some fifteen blocks away. ‘It’s Sonya! It’s … my … Sonya.’

‘No! Tell me she’s safe. Has Pskov been attacked?’

‘She never got there. I’ve just had word from my wife’s sister. The train never arrived. At first they thought it was delayed — nothing unusual, as some trains have stood in sidings for days, waiting for the all-clear. But now —’ Tears ran down his cheeks as silently as rain. ‘Now it’s been a week, and there have been reports of a German attack on the line to Pskov. They can’t say which train was hit, but it’s likely —’ He stopped and laid his head on the table, crying so hard the wood creaked under the weight of his grief.

Shostakovich hovered beside him. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. These reports are often bullshit — ninety per cent rumour, ten per cent hearsay. You’ve been intending to join the Conservatoire in Tashkent, haven’t you? Why not go there as planned, and surely you’ll soon hear good news about Sonya.’ But his head was still ringing with the notes he’d just written; the thudding of the timpani held the authority of a death march, and he found it hard to believe his own words.

‘I can’t go away now,’ said Nikolai, lifting his head. ‘I must stay here, in case she makes her way home.’ He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘I must find something to do while I wait for her to come home. Perhaps I can work in a munitions factory. Or lend my support to the Radio Orchestra.’

‘That will raise the spirits of our melancholic conductor!’ Shostakovich, clumsy from thirty hours without sleep, tried for a joke. ‘If Elias gets one of Russia’s finest violinists to join his ragged band, he’ll smile for the first time in a decade.’

Nikolai’s swallow was painfully loud in the quiet room. ‘I came to you not just because you’re my friend. I hoped you might help me find out the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’

‘About what happened to the train. The Kremlin listens to you, after all. Your name’s known by the top authorities, not only in the cultural department but also in defence.’ He fixed his eyes on Shostakovich. ‘I ask you — I
beg
you. Would you make use of your position to find out the truth about Sonya?’

A light breeze rattled the window frame; Shostakovich took off his glasses and began polishing them with his handkerchief. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said at last.

Nikolai stood up in a rush, his chair crashing to the floor. ‘I’ve offended you! If it were anyone but Sonya, I’d never ask for such a thing. I know
you loathe asking the Party for privileges, that you never do it even for yourself, that you despise people who try to use your influence for their gain. I know all this, and I’m sure you hate me for presuming. But it’s Sonya — it’s my Sonya!’ He backed away from the chair as if it were a body on a battlefield.

‘Please believe me, Nikolai. If I could do anything to find her, if I could make any phone calls or send any telegrams, I would do so instantly. But from the day the Germans breached our borders, my influence has counted for nothing. I can’t even get score paper to continue my work. Stalin and his generals are concentrating on military strategy, not musical matters. At present, in official eyes, I’m smaller than an ant.’

‘Of course.’ Nikolai’s hectic flush had faded, leaving his face waxy. ‘You’re right. I’ve been grasping at straws.’

‘As one does, when the river is closing over one’s head.’ Tears stung Shostakovich’s eyes; he’d just remembered Sonya’s small hand on his arm as he’d walked her home down Nevsky Prospect. Was it possible the train carrying her to safety was now a twisted mess of metal? Carriages splintered apart, fragments of bone scattered over the dry ground?

‘I must go.’ Nikolai sounded more definite. He picked up the chair and set it neatly in at the table. ‘I’ll go to the
Pravda
offices to see if anyone there knows anything. I’m sorry if I interrupted your work.’

Shostakovich kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m quite used to interruptions. You know what it’s like trying to work with youngsters —’ He stopped, bit his lip and rushed on. ‘Even if my name were General Shaposhnikov or Marshal Voroshilov, I’d be unable to help you. Our commanders are masters of chaos, attempting to steer Russia with neither a plan in front of them nor experience behind them. Details go unnoticed, the bigger picture confounds them. We’re in the hands of fools and idiots, thanks to the way the army was decimated by our own leader. You don’t think the bumbling generals who survived the purge would know where evacuees are, do you, when they can scarcely locate their own brains?’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Nikolai’s head drooped. ‘It’s hopeless, of course. But nonetheless I must go on searching.’

‘It’s not hopeless,’ urged Shostakovich, ‘and you must go on hoping. Hearing Sonya play, I felt sure she was destined for a great future. I still feel that now, and my instincts are seldom wrong.’

‘I have the cello. Perhaps, like the beam of a lighthouse, it will bring her home.’ But Nikolai walked to the door like a blind man, hands outstretched as if to stop himself falling.

Back in his workroom, Shostakovich sat at the desk for some minutes, his shoulders heaving. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve, picked up his father’s shaky hand-made gadget, and began tracing staves on the backs of old composition essays as if his life depended on it. The metal spider moved lightly and crookedly over the paper, leaving trailing lines in its wake. Page after page, rhythm soothing away thought until the chaos of the world was reduced to five clean but uneven lines.

PART III

Autumn 1941

The descent

September was cold and grey. Every day the sun hid behind thick cloud as if avoiding the sight of German tanks poised at Leningrad’s gates. The urgency of the summer had been replaced by a strange lethargy growing like moss over the surface of the city. Ordinary activities were interspersed with extraordinary ones but, whether shuffling in bread queues or training for grenade-throwing, people spoke in flat voices and their faces were as dull as the gun-metal sky.

Shostakovich was feeling increasingly exhausted. His legs ached and there was a constant pain behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s because my thirty-fifth birthday is approaching,’ he said to Nina. ‘I’m becoming an old man.’

‘Fire-watching all night and composing all day is enough to make anyone feel old. Besides, you always feel ill when you’re writing. Once you’ve finished this work, you’ll be fine.’

‘Once I’ve finished! The problem is —’ He took a burning gulp of tea, glanced at Nina, who was grating potatoes, and plunged into an admission, hoping it wasn’t a mistake. ‘This is only a first movement. Although this one may be done in a few days, there’ll still be a second movement to write, and then a third and a fourth.’

‘It’s going to be … a symphony?’

‘I’m afraid so. You’d think twenty-five minutes of thunder and lightning would be enough. But a few days ago I was forced to acknowledge that there is more to come.’ He remembered the moment with something close to annoyance. As he’d dragged a bucket of sand up the steep steps
to the Conservatoire roof, suspicion had hardened into certainty. The final grumbles of the main theme, the tanks fading into the distance — they weren’t final. There was more to write.